Holding On (To the Wheel and the Future)
by Shearwater
Summary: She'd needed a drinking buddy for a while now. Turns out, she wasn't the only one. Outside POV. Warning for references to suicide, but NOT a deathfic, I promise.


**Hello! This is my first SPN fic, one that's been knocking around my desktop for a while. I wrote half, waffled, wrote the other half, waffles some more, edited, and have now decided to post it.**

 **Like I said in the description, there are mentions of suicide, but this is not a deathfic and is not meant to be uber-depressing or heavy either. This is largely the result of my working through my life being affected by suicide–and let's be real, it's also a result of my shameless obsession with Supernatural. :D This is kind of a closure fic, for both the narrator and me, with everyone's favorite boys thrown in to the mix.**

 **This is currently all I have for this fic; I didn't know what else to add onto it. If you guys want more or an epilogue of some kind I'd be happy to keep going. Let me know in PMs or reviews!**

 **Disclaimer: And no, I don't own Supernatural. Sadly. So, so sadly.**

 **Enjoy!**

Holding On (To the Wheel and the Future)

Okay, this douche was starting to seriously tick me off.

Unfortunately, he didn't notice. He kept leaning closer to me across his bar stool, sliding his tattooed arm over the wood, thick hands twitching like he wanted to grab my wrist. _Do it,_ I thought viciously. _I dare you. What you're after ain't all I got in these jeans, hoss._

Usually, I didn't care about these kinds of guys. The Roadhouse was full of them, and I'd been learning how to deal since my preteen years. Normally a coy grin to the hunter giving me the "look" and I could get them outside, where I casually explained to them I wasn't into what they had to offer. Most, however forward, were somewhere orbiting decent, and backed off. There were a couple, though, that always required a little extra education. Hence stilettos, leather jacket and the pepper spray I kept hidden near the girl zone for whatever non-supernatural threats happened to come my way.

I was betting this particular one would require that special ed. He'd introduced himself as Leatherman, and wow, the imagination. He was a huge dude, the stereotypical biker with black leather and a rat tail hanging over the flannel and denim that marked most of the hunters here. He kept edging closer to me, and I kept edging back, giving one-word answers to his questions he always would answer himself anyway. Some people just don't know when to quit.

I clenched my teeth. Most nights I had a little more patience, but not tonight. Not after the call from Drew's friend, saying he had been murdered by a demon four months ago and he'd just found my contact in his journal. Not after that adlet in Minnesota had killed five hikers, one when I was there, before I managed to take it down.

Not after Jackie. Even now, especially not that.

The bell over the door jingled, signaling someone's entry. I glanced over the hick's beefy shoulder and felt something go still in the pit of my stomach. It was like I was seeing a predator in the wild, a wolf or a bear in its natural habitat–like a whole new gravity had been introduced to the situation.

The two men who had just walked–no, prowled in, more like–were hunters, no mistake. Both had the stance of people who have been on guard their entire lives, a loose vigilance that could slip from relaxed to weapons ready and licensed to kill in a fraction of a moment. I could see the telltale bulges of pistols under their jackets, and the one on the left had a short knife hilt sticking out of his boot. When they walked, I recognized the practiced co-awareness that came from watching one another's back for a long time; how their bodies seemed to graft the air between them to accommodate the height of one and the broad shoulders of the other. Either best friends or siblings, though my money would be on the latter.

Despite this, there was a definite difference in their vibes. The one on the right was unusually tall, at least six-foot four with a lean, powerful build and unruly brown hair that parted in the middle and fell down over the sides of his face

or was tucked behind his ears. His fists were jammed deep in the pockets of his duster. There was an innocence about him as well as an air of experience, like he had seen a done a lot but still believed in a light at the end of the tunnel. The other was shorter, but only by a few inches, and his body was more muscular and compact. He was sheathed in a well-loved leather jacket, and his arms hung loose at his sides, like he was ready to fight or lend a hand if the need arose. A gold amulet rested below his clavicle. When my gaze went to his face my eyebrows rose. I may not be into guys, but I can still appreciate handsomeness when I see it. Short, dark blonde hair that spiked up in the front, and hazel eyes that, combined with a strong jawline and lips that looked like they had given many girls a good time, served to lend him a crystalline, but masculine beauty. Judging by the confident way he carried himself, he knew it too.

The two hunters paused in the middle of the room, casting sharp, observant eyes around at the many patrons who had come this particular night. If their stance was anything to go by, they could take down many of the larger guys here. They seemed to be looking for someone, and they seemed to be known around here. I noticed several of the hunters around staring at them momentarily before looking away when their gazes came too close. There were various emotions in the gawkers' expressions: anger, surprise, fear, wariness, disbelief, and from a few, a fair bit of lust. I had a feeling these guys got around, and left marks.

A hail came from behind the bar. I looked back and saw Ellen, the owner of the Roadhouse, raising her hand in greeting to the two men. Some of the lines around her eyes faded when she saw them, and a matronly twinkle brightened her face. She knew them, had for a while if I had to guess. Little else could get that look on Ellen's face. She was a seasoned hunter, which by default meant an everpresent grief.

I looked back to the two men. The tall one seemed to relax a little, relief present on his tired countenance. The one with the amulet just grinned, showing a glint of pearly teeth. They made their way over to the bar, leaning against the weathered wood.

Ellen leaned over and kissed both of their cheeks. "Hello, boys," she said warmly, before her expression turned stern. "Dean Winchester, where the hell have you been?" She turned to the tall one. "Sam, what has this brother of yours been getting into? I haven't seen either of you for over a year! I hope you've been keeping him from indulging in that death wish."

Brothers, indeed. The shorter one–Dean, apparently– reddened slightly, but half-grinned, his confidence showing. Sam ducked his head, also smiling. My eyebrows climbed higher. Ellen never had sons; her only child was Joanna Beth. I'd known her long enough to hold that as fact. But the way she acted around these two, and their reactions, betrayed a motherly affection. Damn. These boys were just getting more and more interesting.

Dean and Sam slid onto a pair of stools, and Ellen reached under the counter, pulling out two beers and placing them on the bar. The boys accepted them gratefully.

Just then I noticed the absence of the biker hick. He must have walked off while I was studying the brothers. I scanned the room, but found no sign of his leather-clad bulk. I sighed in relief. I would've dealt with him, but tonight I just didn't have the energy.

I turned back to my own beer, finding solace in the familiar brown glass leaving yet another ring of condensation on the wood. I took a sip, trying to stave off the darkness that gathered at the corners of my thoughts. Someone fired up a jukebox in the corner. An old Zep song started to filter amongst the clatter of multiple conversations. I felt the familiar chords and lyrics work their way into my heart, and a ghost of a smile, an endangered species for me nowadays, lifted my lips.

I sat there for a while more, nursing my beer and trying not to think. Leatherman did not come back, and I ventured to hope that the people in the room had finally caught on to my leave-me-the-hell-alone vibe.

That hope was dashed when I was joined again. All except one, apparently.

I sensed his approach before I actually looked up, heard the subtle creak of leather and felt the aura of cautious confidence change the energies around me. The brother seated himself where the hick had been, setting his beer on the counter a little way from mine. I hunched my shoulders, trying to look antisocial. Apparently it didn't work. He stayed.

I sighed. "Don't you men ever know when to quit?" I muttered. "I thought hunters were supposed to be attentive."

Dean snorted lightly. "Touchy, touchy. Excuse me for taking an empty seat that happened to be near you, ma'am." His tone was light and joking, and to my surprise I felt some of my pissiness ease. I clung to it greedily, wanting to wrap myself in anger's crooning, vindictive folds. But this Dean wouldn't let me go.

"Anyway, you looked lonely, over here all by yourself," he continued. I stared at my beer, drilling a hole in it. Just another guy hunting tail, damn it. Sometimes I considered making a T-shirt that read "Lesbian" just so I wouldn't have to deal with this shit so often. Everyone wants to be pretty until the people you don't want start to come after you. Then it's just a pain.

I scowled. "Don't you have a brother to get back to?" I grouched, glaring up at him. He seemed surprised.

"You know me and Sam?" he asked. I didn't miss the wariness that started to creep into his voice, or the hand that slipped under the bar, doubtless toward one of his pieces.

"Relax, sunshine," I said. "I've never seen you two until now. It's amazing what you hear when you listen, is all."

That seemed to satisfy him. His hand went back around his beer, but he still seemed more on guard than before. _That's right, hot stuff,_ I thought triumphantly. _I'm not just some lost girl in the bar who needs rescuing._

"You've got good ears," he said. There was no prospecting in his voice now, just casual nonchalance and a hint of legitimate respect, which pleased me.

"Hunting the things that go bump in the night does that to you after a while," I replied, taking another sip.

"You been hunting long?" he asked, linking his fingers around the sweating bottle. I narrowed my eyes. My mom taught me never to volunteer more information than needed, even in conversation. I shot Dean a severe look.

He held up a hand in a gesture of surrender. "Just a friendly question, sister. You got a name, anyway?"

I fixed him with my best microscopic gaze, employing my skill of reading people that had served me so well for so long. Up close, I noticed more about Dean. He was young, probably about thirty, but crow's feet and grin lines fought for space around the corners of his hazel eyes. Eyes that, when I looked more deeply into them, I knew could turn instantly from open and sociable to the frightening blankness of the hunt. Young, but not stupid. There was a gravity of experience around him.

What the hell. I decided to give him a chance. There was grief in his eyes too. Maybe we could learn from each other.

"Laurena," I said curtly.

He offered a hand. "Dean." I shook it, feeling callouses. "Pleased to meet you, Laurena."

"You too." I turned back to the beer. "And your brother's Sam, yeah?" I looked a few seats down to where they had first sat. The bar was empty. "And where'd he go, anyway?"

Dean didn't turn around, but jerked a thumb to one of the corners of the bar. "Sammy's back there. Just working on some research." I followed his indication. The taller man was hunched over a pile of books on one of the tables, the end of a pencil in his mouth and a bottle in front of him. Hmm. There was that freaky intersibling telepathy again. I was an only child, but I recognized the attention the two brothers paid to each other. That kind of awareness only came from spending a lifetime of danger with one another.

"You two hunt together." It was a statement, not a question, but I said it anyway.

"Yeah," said Dean. "Kinda the family business."

Oh. That explained a few things. "Which one taught you?" I asked, deciding for once to pull no punches.

Dean blinked in surprise, some of his cocky persona cracking. "Sorry?"

"Which parent taught you guys? This isn't the kind of 'family business' you want to pass down. You get pulled into it. So who taught you, and who died? Sister, cousin?"

Some of the color drained from Dean's cheeks, and what was left of my tender side wondered if I'd gone too far. Probably. But I was hurting, the love-hurt that makes you want to inflict pain on everyone around you, and Dean was in the line of fire. His knuckles whitened around his beer bottle, and he looked down at the bar. "My mother was murdered by a demon when I was four. My father started hunting after that. He raised me and Sam into the life."

Oh, shit. I did go too far. Too far was putting it gently. I tried backpedaling. "I'm sorry–" I began.

"Ain't your fault," Dean interrupted. In fact, he didn't seem angry, just…grieving. He rubbed a hand, wet with condensation from his beer, over his face in a gesture of exhaustion. The moisture stuck to his eyelashes like tears. "Yeah, but like you said, you don't choose this life. My dad wanted to find my mother's killer, and as Sam and I grew it became our goal too. Well, for a little while, at least." He laughed humorlessly.

"Have you found it yet?" I asked carefully. Demons are a touchy subject amongst hunters. They used to be rare and seldom seen, even the powerful ones, until about two years back. Then a whole horde of the black-eyed bastards started popping up all over the Midwest, and more appearing elsewhere. Finding one demon after all that…talk about a needle in a stack of needles.

"Yeah," Dean answered. "We found him." He shifted on his stool, and I knew he didn't want to explain more.

"But…your father wasn't with you," I continued, reading the haggard expression on his face.

He shook his head. "He died a few months before." I didn't press. A hunter never dies pretty, and Dean looked almost sick. I decided to switch tactics.

"I'm sorry," I said again. "I know it doesn't do anything, but I'm still sorry."

Dean seemed to yank his emotions under control, and he turned to me. "You're right, it doesn't. But thanks." He sipped his beer with one corner of his mouth. "I saw you when we came in. You seemed to be saddled with a one-sided conversation. Biker boy giving you trouble?"

I barked a laugh. "Hardly. I just wasn't in the mood tonight for explaining things to him."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "'Explain?'"

I rolled my eyes, stamping out a flare of frustration. "Not every girl out there is interested in what you men have to offer, you know."

Understanding dawned in Dean's eyes. Normally this was when the guys would either nod, embarrassed, and leave or sneer in derision and high-tail it like they'd been flirting with some kind of sexual leper. I'd gotten numb to it by now. I braced for Dean's reaction; despite myself, I was enjoying his company, and didn't want him to leave just yet.

To my surprise, he took door number three. "I applaud your bravery," he answered, no joke in his voice. "I can think of some bachelors around here would wouldn't take no for an answer, no matter how you slice it." And he went back to sipping his beer.

I felt something like relief bloom in the pit of my stomach. That didn't happen to me often. "Thanks," I said honestly, and I knew he could tell I meant it for more than the compliment. "It's nice to find someone with a little restraint around here."

Dean scanned the room thoughtfully, taking in the bar full of hunters, some still casting furtive glances over to Sam, still gnawing on his pen in the corner, or in our general area. "Yeah, well, they're not all bad," he said, something sharpening in his glance as he took in the gawkers nearer his brother. "A lot of them are just angry, or grieving." He seemed satisfied that they would leave Sam alone and turned his gaze back to me, but I could still sense his awareness toward his sibling. "So what about yourself? You didn't answer my question earlier."

I smirked. "What, you didn't really expect me to believe you weren't just fishing for conversation from a hot-body blonde, did you?"

Dean grinned for the first time since joining me, and I tried to keep a rein on my altitude-challenged eyebrows. Damn. No wonder he was so freakin' confident. A face like that, straight girls would be breaking his door down, I bet. But there was a boyish purity about it too, and I felt myself relax completely. He really wasn't here to pick up a one night stand.

"Laurena, darlin'," Dean said. "One thing you should know about men: it is an indisputable fact that some of us think with something other than our brains. And you are most certainly a beautiful lady. But I'm not here for that. I've had a long day, you looked like you had too. I figured you may want to share a story or two over a beer, maybe even a laugh if the stars are aligned. Sammy's being antisocial, and I am a man quickly made lonely." His words were light and hid a laugh, but he sounded honest, more honest than I'd heard from a man in a long time.

Well, it wasn't like I was going home with him. And I could use a drinking buddy right about now.

I shrugged. "Been hunting a long time," I said, referring to his earlier query. "Since I was ten. My daddy died when I was little, and one night a strigha shows up in my bedroom window. A hunter in town took care of it, my mom picked up a few things from him. After that we hit the road; we were about to be evicted anyway. I just learned as she learned, and eventually we went our separate ways."

Dean frowned. "Why didn't you stick together?"

I rolled my eyes. "Didn't you ever hit puberty, boy? That time after which you spend every waking second waiting to be away from your parents?"

Dean's brow furrowed more, and he studied his beer. "Nah. The whole 'go your own way' thing was always Sammy's forte." He looked uncomfortable, like he was remembering a time he would rather have never happened.

I grinned at the reference, though. "Say what you want about Fleetwood Mac, they were right about that. But yeah, about two years ago I tried out the civilian gig, left my mom to the hunt. She was plenty capable of soloing by then."

"And how'd that go, the 'normal' life?" asked Dean, with a trace of bitterness I noticed but decided not to probe. Everyone had pasts.

I shrugged noncommittally. "It was rough, I'll be honest. It took me a while to adjust. But I had someone keeping me there, so I was okay."

Dean's eyes grew soft. "I think I know what you mean." He took another sip. "What was her name?"

I tried not to be jolted by his perception even as my mental walls rose around the subject. But I'd started it. A nevermind now would just be douchey.

"Jackie," I answered, trying to keep my voice level. "Her name was Jackie. She was great. She was amazing." I pushed down the sharp spear of sadness that twisted inside me.

Dean nodded. "But you're here," he said carefully. "And she's not."

"She killed herself," I said flatly. There was no other way I could say it without screaming. "Two months ago."

Dean's hands went quiet on the bar. "And you found her."

I nodded, not even surprised at his perception this time.

"I'm really sorry. For what it's worth."

"Thanks." I sighed. "Yeah. I couldn't stay. I just…couldn't. Too many memories."

Dean nodded in understanding. "So you came back to the hunt?"

I shrugged. "I had nowhere else to go. I never really fit in with normal people anyway."

"I'm sorry you had to leave," Dean said. "I know for some hunters, a white picket fence is all they really want."

"Were you ever like that?" I asked. He didn't seem like the type, with his weathered eyes and hands scarred from trying to hold the world. But you never know.

"No, not me," he said, confirming my guess. "But my brother, Sam, he did for a time. Went to college and everything."

"What happened?" I asked, not sure I wanted to hear the answer. Something bad, in order to get yanked back into the job. Hunting isn't something you voluntarily come back to.

Dean's eyes shadowed. "I did." I frowned, not understanding, but said nothing. He rubbed his hand over his hair again, tugging at the cropped ends. "Four years ago. Let's just say the same demon that killed our mom came back and killed any chance Sam had of living the normal life. He's been on the road with me ever since."

I glanced back at the brother. Sam was still bent over work, but he sensed his eyes on me. He glanced up, and even from across the room I felt the weight of his gaze. I quickly looked away, unsettled. It seemed he and Dean were both far older in soul than their years betrayed.

"You know that wasn't your fault," Dean said quietly. I looked up, confused.

"Your girlfriend," he explained. "It wasn't your fault."

I felt my blood chill and heat up at the same time. "What do you know about it?" I snapped, feeling my prickliness come back. He knew nothing. He had never even met her–

"I know what guilt feels like," Dean murmured. "And I know what it looks like. You blame yourself for what happened."

"And how could I not?" I snarled. "She was my girlfriend. I should've noticed. I should've seen that she had gotten worse–" I clamped down on my grief before it could run away with my words. "I should've been able to save her," I finished miserably.

Dean was silent for a moment. "We're hunters, Laurena. We of all people know you can't save everyone."

I glared at the bar, not trusting myself to speak even though I knew he was right. "You know, I've thought about it," I said, after a time. "About making a deal. Bringing her back."

Dean made a choked noise and I looked over. All the blood drained from his face and for a second I thought he was going to be sick. I resisted the urge to put my hand on his arm for fear he might fall over. "Dean?"

"Don't," he said hoarsely. "Please. Don't make any deal."

"What?" I asked, confused. I mean, I know there's always a price to crossroads deals, usually your soul. But you get ten years with the person you bring back, and who knows? In this life you may not live until next week. "You okay, man?"

Dean's eyes flickered and tightened pain, but I got the sense it was memory-pain, a traumatic experience still fresh in his mind rearing its head at my words. "I…made a deal," he said. "To bring someone I loved back. Last year. I thought the demon would give me ten years, but apparently I've got a rap sheet down below."

I swallowed at the implications. "How long?"

"One."

Goosebumps rose on my arms, despite the oppressive warmth of the bar. "But how…how did you get back?"

Dean smirked brokenly. "Broke out with my staggering craftiness and looks, of course," he said, but his eyes were dark, and he rubbed left right shoulder almost subconsciously, as if with the memory of old pain. "Some stories aren't worth repeating, darlin,'" he continued. "But believe me, no time on earth with anyone will be worth it, because the whole time you'll be thinking about what's coming. The only thing that kept me human down there was the thought of my little brother up here." He glanced back to Sam again, and this time I could see the love in his eyes before he turned back to me. "No, Laurena," he said. "Please don't make a deal with the devil. You just get burned, and you lose your loved ones anyway in the end."

I slumped onto the bar, the fight going out of me. "So I'm just supposed to forget about her?" I asked bitterly.

"No!" Dean said, with sudden vehemence. He sighed. "No. Don't forget about her. You can't bring her back. But you can honor her memory. When you lose your will to keep going, to keep fighting, think of her. Fight for her. Look for her in places other than a crossroads. That's all we can ever do. Just keep going."

I swung my head to look at him. "Is that what you do? Or did? With your mom? Your dad?"

Dean grinned humorlessly. "Yep. I've been holding on to nothing but the wheel for a long time, honey."

I smiled at yet another reference. Mac, Patti Loveless–Dean had good taste in music. I glanced again to Sam. "Nothing but the wheel. Well, that and him."

Dean's eyes, so galvanized from a life at war, softened. "Yeah. Nothing but the wheel, and a stubborn, accident-prone little brother. Him and his optimism. Sammy's one of those guys who still believes in the future, y'know?"

"Well, maybe that's not such a bad thing, given our line of work," I replied.

Dean looked thoughtful. "Maybe not. Still think hope can be dangerous for people like us."

"Without a doubt," I said. "But the future? If that keeps him going, and he keeps you going, it can't be all bad."

I looked at him and smiled faintly before holding up my bottle. "To the wheel," I said, sounding grand, laughing a little.

Dean grinned again. "Okay. Yeah. To the wheel. And the future."

I smiled. "The future." He clicked his beer against mine. Together, we drained the last drops from our bottles.

The reek of body odor and leather stifled the air around me, and I resisted the urge to groan. Guess who's back.

The biker sat down heavily on the stool to my right, a fresh beer in hand. "Sorry I took so long," he said amidst a belch. "Just had to square some things away with my boys."

"Not at all," I said, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. I realized, with the way he was sitting, my body was mostly blocking Dean from view. I decided to keep it that way, and Dean seemed to do the same. I felt him still next to me.

"We got a big hunt in the morning," the biker continued. "Apparently that demon kid's been sighted recently, not forty mile from here. Me and my boys are gonna see if we can go take him down for good. Apparently he's been giving most hunters who go after him the slip lately. Luckily," he swaggered, wriggling his eyebrows in a way I bet he thought was sexy but just made them look like furry caterpillars trying to flee the post-apocalyptic landscape that was his face, "we're not most hunters."

As he spoke, I was aware of two things. One being the total revulsion exacting its apparent revenge against the pit of my stomach at being in such close proximity to him, the second a curious sensation I couldn't quite give a name to. It was almost like the air was going colder on one side of the room.

Then I figured it out. I could feel the freezing rage radiating from Dean, seeping into my bones, pouring adrenaline into my bloodstream. I felt a sudden, irrational fear, a prey-like urge to run away, far and fast. But I kept my face neutral, even as Dean's aura grew colder and colder. "Demon kid?" I asked casually, taking a faux-sip from my now-empty beer bottle. "Heard nothing about this. Tell me more."

"Seriously?" Leatherman asked. "You been living under a rock for the last year?"

"Almost," I muttered, but he was already talking again.

"Yeah, this kid apparently is actually half-demon. Even been hanging out with one for the last year or so. Bunch of hunters have been trying to bag him since he and another guy let a bunch of demons out last year. No one's been able to take him down. But we got a tip from an informant. Hear he's gonna be two cities over tomorrow. Me and my boys are gonna go get him. There's five of us and only two of him."

"Two of him?" I asked.

"That other guy," Leatherman said. "The one he let the demons out with. His brother, I think."

My stomach dropped as the pieces fell together, but I smiled sweetly. "Huh. Maybe I have heard of them. This kid got a name?"

The biker belched again. "Winchester."

On my other side, I felt Dean tense and heard the muffled creak of leather as his hand went into his pocket again to close around his gun.

"Well," I said, pushing my empty bottle away. "This has been a pleasant evening, but it's time I headed on home. Don't want to drive with too many and all." I had to get Leatherman away from Dean. It was likely he wouldn't recognize the man silently fuming next to me, but one thing was certain: if I didn't separate the two within the next thirty seconds Ellen would be calling her insurance adjuster, and I couldn't let that happen. Dread knotted in my stomach. At least I told myself that. Dean was strong and more than capable of defending himself; of that I had no doubt, and I was sure Sam was too. But I had seen the pack of hunters Leatherman had come in with. They were all beefy, broad-chested, and armed to the teeth. I looked over to where they were clustered in one corner of the room. There were at least six, and all of them were keeping a subtle eye on their boss. One saw my looking and sent me a leer. I turned away in barely-guised disgust.

Leatherman threw his head back to finish his beer. I cast a discrete glance to Sam. The younger Winchester had noticed our movement. His fingers had paused on the keyboard, and intense eyes peered out from beneath his messy bangs. I knew that if he thought his brother was in danger he would be up and across the room in seconds, ready to fight. These bikers were lewd, but they weren't stupid. They would probably put it together that Sam and Dean were brothers, and there weren't many brother hunters. They would figure Sam was the one with demon blood in him. After that, I doubted even Ellen would be able to stop the fight.

Sam caught my eye. Minutely, I shook my head. His half-stood in alarm and anger, but I subtly dipped my head toward Leatherman. I shook my head again, and I could see the understanding dawn on Sam's face. He settled down, but I felt his eyes still burning into us as I turned back to Leatherman. "Beers are on me," I said, tossing a twenty onto the bar. "See you around." I pulled on my leather jacket and started away from the bar.

I was hoping he would follow me outside, where I'd be able to handle him on my own. Leatherman had other ideas.

His meaty hand closed tightly around my arm. "Woah, woah, where you goin,' honey? I didn't even get your name."

It took every ounce of my self-restraint to keep me from reaching up and clawing out his right eye. "Let go of my arm," I said, trying to keep my voice neutral.

He yanked me closer so I could smell the alcohol on his breath. "I think you're getting out of here mighty quick, honey," he said. "And you didn't introduce yourself. That's awfully rude where I come from, and we don't tolerate rudeness."

I resisted the urge to swallow. He was drunk, but he was big and he had backup. For the first time this evening I felt a flicker of fear. I had gotten out of bad situations before, and I was fully confident in my ability to kick ass. But the malicious intent in this man's eyes still sent a primal thrill down my back.

A creak of leather next to me. "She asked you to let go of her," Dean said. "Why don't you do as she says, friend."

I resisted the urge to groan. So much for avoiding an altercation. A smaller, prouder part of me also didn't want to deal with the humiliation of having Dean break us up like I was some sort of damsel in distress. Though, with the way Leatherman was looking at me, a little help from a fellow hunter, gender notwithstanding, might become welcome really quickly.

Leatherman tightened his grip but stepped closer to Dean. The elder Winchester stared him down, despite being at least three inches shorter and fifty pounds lighter. "This is a private conversation, and I'm no friend of yours. What the hell you want?" Leatherman demanded. I bit my tongue to keep from screaming at both of them and looked up at the chivalrous idiot beside me. As I did, I felt the words die on my tongue.

Something had changed in Dean. The casually attentive, relaxed man I had just shared grief and a beer with was gone. In his place was the definition of any kind of hunter– a focused, fearsome, intrinsically powerful being, with all of his energy lasered in on one thing: prey. The look on his face promised that tonight, someone was coming away bloody.

"I want you to do as she says," Dean replied levelly, though the threat was clear in his voice. "This young lady has asked you politely, and the gentlemanly thing to do is abide by her wishes. See, where I come from, disrespecting a woman, verbally or physically, is considered extremely rude. We don't tolerate rudeness either."

Leatherman drew in a large breath. "Oh, yeah? Where is it that you come from, _friend?"_

Dean grinned mirthlessly, his eyes freezing over. " _Hell."_

"Dean," I hissed, unable to take it anymore. "I'm _fine."_ I drew myself up to my full height and squared Leatherman in his watery blue eyes. "Let go of my arm, Leatherman. I'm not after what you have to offer, and I don't want to cause a fight here."

But he wasn't paying attention to me anymore. His hand fell away from my arm like an afterthought. He was staring at Dean, brow furrowed. "What'd she call you?" he asked.

Across the room, Sam rose.

"This isn't about me," said Dean. Slowly, his hand went to his belt. "My name isn't important."

"It's pretty important," said Leatherman. He flicked one hand over his shoulder. As one, his hunters left their table to gather behind him. "See, me and my boys have been looking for a guy named Dean. Him and his little demon brother Sammy–"

"I'm going to give you one warning," Dean cut in. The entire bar had gone silent, I noticed. The air seemed to hold its breath. "You can turn around and walk away right now, and forget you ever saw me here. Forget you ever heard the names Sam and Dean Winchester. Go back to what you did before you got that tip. I give you my honest word that it is far more beneficial to you having us both alive."

Leatherman sneered. "And why is that?"

Dean grinned frighteningly again. "See, me and my brother, we have a system. Usually there's someone or something gunning for us; every now and again one of us goes down. But that still leaves the other." Dean stepped fractionally closer. "And you can ask Gordon Walker, or the demons, or Azazel himself: we don't let each other go easy. I will protect my brother. I don't care if he has demon blood in him or not. He's my family. And if keeping him safe means cutting into you and each one of your boys, right here, right now…" Dean cocked his head to one side, raising his eyebrows. "Well, then, let's get started."

Silence fell. I was torn between a manic fear of the shit that was about to surely go down and a total exasperation. Honestly, you could smell the testosterone. I sighed angrily and pushed between the two men. "Boys, please–"

The punch caught me on my left eyebrow. White flashed over my vision and I gasped, falling to the floor.

Probably should've seen that one coming.

I heard Dean snarl above me. A second later, the sound of flesh hitting flesh, grunts and gasps as punches met their mark. Beneath it, I heard something else: heavy, angry-sounding footsteps as someone ran toward us. _Sam._

I shook off my stun and got to my feet, but the fight was already over.

Two of Leatherman's men were on the floor. Two more were moaning and clutching bleeding noses or kicked-out knees. The third had his arms around Dean's head and neck in a headlock as Leatherman himself rose from the floor. His eye was already blackening. Rage twisted his features.

"You," he snarled at Dean. The elder Winchester's right eye was also swelling and bleeding. Blood ran down his face, but his gaze was steely and unwavering.

I pulled a knife from inside my jacket and lunged for the man holding Dean, but powerful arms grabbed my own and wrenched them back. A hand reached up and twisted the knife out of my grip. "Hold still or you'll regret it," a voice hissed in my ear. One of the guys who Dean hadn't managed to knock out. I struggled, but the guy was at least a foot taller than me, and I knew my limits. I stopped fighting, pretending to run out of energy. Better to save up until he got complacent, then I could go for my knife again.

"You," Leatherman snarled again.

To my shock, Dean smirked. Actually, wait, this was Dean, of course he was smirking in the face of a threat. This guy had been to hell and back, for God's sake. "Can I help you?" he quipped. Leatherman's eyes bugged.

I looked desperately to the bar. Where the hell was Ellen? Usually by now she'd have ended this fight as she usually did– shouting and a few new birdshot holes in the Roadhouse's already perforated ceiling, courtesy of the shotgun I knew she kept behind the whiskey bottles under the counter. But her post behind the taps was empty.

In fact, I realized, the whole room was too. The other patrons had apparently concluded that remaining in the vicinity of a fight involving several bikers and Dean Winchester was not in the best interest of preserving life and limb.

"Boss," said the one holding Dean, ticking his head up. "Watch it."

I looked behind Leatherman. Sam was running from the bar, a tall, half-empty gin bottle in his hand, poised to throw.

Now would be a good time to get out of this meathead's grip. I coiled my energy inside me, but before I could lash out, Leatherman stood behind Dean, pulled a gun, and rested the end of the muzzle on Dean's temple. "I wouldn't, boy," he said calmly. Sam stopped ten feet away. "Put the bottle on the ground," Leatherman said, "Unless you want the wall to be introduced to your brother's brains." Sam's features were tight with anger, but he dropped the bottle.

"Good," Leatherman said. "Now turn around and put your hands behind your head."

"Don't, Sam," Dean said calmly.

"You are hardly in a position to negotiate!" yelled Leatherman. He landed another punch, this one to Dean's stomach. Sam snarled and started forward, but Leatherman brandished the gun. "I wouldn't, Sammy boy."

"Let him go," Sam said lowly. "It's me you want, isn't it?"

Dean's head hung low; maybe he'd lost consciousness. I waited for a fractional slackening in the grip of the man holding me.

"Well, initially," Leatherman said, in a tone that made me want to groan. Great. Now he was monologuing. "I did just want you. I had this plan all mapped out for tomorrow; see we knew where you were gonna be, and I figured, 'Hey, we outnumber them three to one. Should be an easy hunt, take down the demon boy.' Then you and your brother show up, conveniently, at Harvelle's Roadhouse, and just like that I'm suddenly ahead of schedule. I didn't know it was you, of course, but I had my suspicions. And then this fine lady says it's so, just now." Leatherman tucked the end of his gun under Dean's chin. "And then your brother comes in here talking shit to me, and I figure I can kill to birds with one stone." He motioned with his gun again. "So if you want your brother to have a quick death, rather than having me put a bullet through each of his fingers while you watch, do as I say. Kneel, Sammy."

Sam's eyes darkened with rage, and in that moment, Dean struck.

The elder Winchester threw his head back. It connected violently with the face of his captor, and even from here I heard the loud _click!_ as the guy's nose broke. He howled, reeling back. Dean wriggled out of his grip and punched him out flat.

As he did, Sam surged forward and tackled Leatherman to the ground.

The one holding me threw me to one side as he went to help his boss. I drew my boot knife (I carry several on my person at one time, precisely for situations like this–never know when you may have to defend new drinking buddies from biker hicks intent on murder), and lunged. I punched the retreating man in the temple. The hilt in my hand magnified the hit, and he dropped like an empty puppet.

Dean rose as the man he'd been fighting with fell as well.

Sam was still grappling with Leatherman. As I watched, Sam managed to hit Leatherman in the eye. Instinctively, the other man brought a hand up to cover his face. Sam struck Leatherman's solar plexus with the heel of his palm. I heard a whoosh as the air emptied from Leatherman's lungs, and he doubled over. Sam brought his knee up like a piledriver and rammed it straight into Leatherman's chin. The biker hit the floorboards with a _thud._

Sam rose. His lip was bleeding. "It's Sam," he said flatly.

Leatherman just moaned and sagged on the floor.

Dean came around to stand next to Sam and asked something lowly. "I'm fine, dude," Sam said. "You take a look at yourself lately?" Dean muttered something; I may have misheard, but it sounded a lot like "Bitch."

Sam grinned, blood in his teeth. "Jerk."

Then Dean looked to me, and paled further when he saw my eye. "Oh, hell, Laurena," he said. "I'm so sorry."

I rolled my eyes, despite the throb it generated. "Chill out, sunshine. You think I haven't been punched before?"

Dean bit his already-reddened lip. "I'm sorry you got dragged into this. It's our problem."

"What, assholes like him–" I poked Leatherman in the ribs with my foot–"Attacking you and your brother? Just because Sam's a little different?" Sam winced. I gave both boys a look. "Trust me, I can relate to people hating you, and the people you love, for something you can't help."

Confusion flickered in Sam's eyes, but Dean nudged him like, _I'll tell you later._ Dean himself smiled sadly. "Yeah, I guess you do. But still–"

"Forget it." I looked at Leatherman and his boys, sprawled in various states of consciousness around the room. "What are we gonna do with these guys?"

Dean's shrugged. "Chain them to the Roadhouse floor? Force them to pole dance for the regular patrons?"

Across the room, the door banged open, and an irate Ellen hurricaned in."BY ALL THE PAGAN GODS!" she roared. "Dean, tell me they didn't manage to kill you both. Because I want to do it myself."

I raised my eyebrows at Dean. "I think you should worry about your more immediate threat."

Ellen stormed over. It struck me again how much these brothers seemed to affect their people; I had never been around Ellen when she was this angry. I could almost see the smoke rising from her nostrils. Her eyes went even darker when she took in the blood on our faces. "I swear to whatever God there is left, I can't leave you two boys alone, can I?" To my amusement, chastened embarrassment colored the brothers' faces. She really was like their mom. "I go to take out the trash, Jo and I get to talking with an old friend, and next thing I know people are piling out of the bar and I hear yelling. I come in to find that you boys have managed, once again, to raise hell in my Roadhouse in less than _five goddamn minutes."_

Dean looked put out. "Technically, they went for us first, Ellen."

The seasoned hunter scowled. "Not the point, Dean." She nudged Leatherman with her foot before looking more closely at each of us. "Damn them. You three look terrible. Okay, go into the back and sit down; Jo'll clean you up. I'll tie these guys up and be right with you."

A minute later the three of us had gone where few had gone before: the Roadhouse's backroom. It was where Ellen kept the things she didn't necessarily want her regulars to see: guns, phones, pictures and such. It was comfortable and well-armed, and the door we came through was thick and heavy. I had no doubt that when the shit hit the fan, Ellen and her family could weather it comfortably here for several days. Couches and comfy chairs were scattered around amongst low tables, and a fridge and weapons rack hunkered on one wall.

Apparently, it was also Ash's unofficial bat cave. The mullet-haired dropout was hunched over his computer at the largest table, a beer on one hand, his face pallid in his screen's glow. He did a double take as we came in. "Holy crap," he said. "What happened to you?"

Dean didn't answer, just fell heavily into the nearest chair. "Nice to see you too, Ash," he muttered, covering his eyes with one red-knuckled hand. I winced in sympathy. The joys of concussions were probably setting in already; the guy had gotten decked enough in the last five minutes. Ash rose from the table and hovered around the three of us awkwardly.

Sam crossed the room and knelt next to his brother. He asked something too low for me to make out, but Dean seemed to grumble and tried to push Sam away, flinching as he did. Sam's mouth tightened into an impressive bitchface. He immediately went to the fridge and started loading ice into a pair of dishtowels. He handed one to me before returning to Dean, and I accepted gratefully. My own eye and head were starting to throb, and I pressed the towel onto the left side of my face, trying not to moan in relief as the cold seeped in. I sank down into a comfy chair, toeing off my high-heeled boots. Normally I wouldn't relax this much in the presence of relative strangers, but it was Ellen's, and given the fact that three of the four people currently in the room were bleeding and black-eyed, I'd say we'd earned it.

The door on the far side of the room opened and Jo walked through, Ziplocs of more ice in one hand and a bright red first-aid bag over the other arm. Her blond hair was in a messy braid falling over one shoulder, lips tight with worry. "Who's hurt worst?" she asked.

"Dean," Sam and I said in unison, despite the brotherly glare we received. Jo handed Sam the first aid kit without a word.

For the next ten minutes we administered and received ice and Tylenol, patched each other's cuts and wrapped bloodied knuckles. Ellen came in after a while to report that after Leatherman and his group had come to, she'd chewed them out enough to be surprised there was enough of the men left to leave stiffly, licking their wounds. "I don't think they'll dare cross you two again in this Roadhouse," she said, smoldering. "You're staying here tonight no matter what, but after this you may want to keep your heads low for a while."

Dean grinned at Sam, who was applying butterfly bandages to a wide cut on his brother's cheek. "Maybe we really should go to Yemen this time."

Sam smirked before grabbing Dean's chin. "Hold still. Nah, we can go somewhere closer than Yemen." A dark eyebrow climbed toward the shaggy hairline. "I hear Baja's nice this time of a year."

Dean looked surprised, then elated. "A beach? A beach, Sammy? And here I was thinking for sure you would want to burrow into some fusty library for a month, living on nothing but tears and mints the desk lady throws at you." Sam scowled, and the rest of us chuckled.

"Get some rest, all of you," said Ellen. "I'd normally lock up after something like this, but it's a Saturday and hunters are expecting."

"Thank you, Ellen," Dean said. "Really."

"No need to thank me, honey," Ellen said. "Jo, I'm gonna need you out there for now."

"Shouldn't I stay with them?" asked Jo. "Someone who doesn't have a concussion should be here."

"I don't have a con–" Sam and Dean started simultaneously.

"Don't even try, boys," snapped Jo. Dean huffed before leaving his chair and sprawling gently onto one of the room's three couches, draping an arm over his eyes. Sam followed suit, flopping into the couch nearest his brother. His feet hung off the end, but his tall frame relaxed into the plushness.

"Ellen," I spoke up. "I'm all right. I can stay with them."

Ellen scowled. "Are you sure, Laurena? It looks like someone decked you pretty nicely."

"He only got one hit in," I said. "And I've had concussions. I know what they feel like, and this isn't one. You three man the bar. The hunters out there are gonna need you more than we will."

Ellen sighed. "If you're sure. You know that means you'll have to wake them up every few hours?"

I nodded. Ellen sighed again. "Alright. I'll send Jo in to check on you in a little bit. You let me know, Laurena."

"Relax, Ellen," I said easily. "I'm good. I'm not Ash when it comes to head injuries."

"That was _one_ time," Ash grumbled. "He didn't _look_ unconscious."

"Get out of here, Ash," I chuckled. Dr. Badass flashed a peace sign as a goodnight before heading out into the main room.

Jo handed me the medkit. "Keep an eye on them," she murmured. "I'll be back in a few hours. There's an alarm clock on the shelf if you want to sleep."

"Thanks, Jo." I glanced over. Dean's eyes had slipped shut and his breathing evened out. Sam sighed quietly, world-weary face relieved and exhausted. His eyes were closed, but I knew he was listening intently for any sound of pain from his brother, any change in his breathing that would alert him that something was wrong. "I'm on it," I murmured. "It's the least I can do."

Jo looked at me oddly. "You know, the Laurena Archer I know wouldn't be sitting here with a black eye after defending two men she barely knew, offering to lose quite a bit of sleep to make sure they wake up again." We'd known each other a long time, the youngest Harvelle and me. She was a few years younger, but my mama had long been friends with Ellen, so Jo and I ended up spending a lot of time together, especially after Mom started hunting. Jo'd been around me enough to recognize that I was acting a little out of character tonight. She knew me as the cactus-impersonating, hot-girl-chasing huntress who never let a crack of her inner feelings really show. Except right now, apparently.

I shrugged. Honestly, I was a little surprised myself. "Something about those two," I said, nodding to the Winchesters. They appeared to both be asleep on their chairs, breaths deep, bodies relaxed, the first time I'd seen them that way in the brief time I'd known them.

Jo nodded, like she knew exactly what I was talking about. She squeezed my shoulder and left without another word.

With nothing better to do, I sat down on the remaining couch. The cushions were worn but comfortingly springy, and I felt a weight slip off my shoulders. I closed my eyes, and for the first time I realized how weird tonight had been. Jo was right. I wasn't myself. I knew it had been unwise, opening my heart to Dean, listening and being listened to. It would result in nothing but more pain. I knew that it was only a matter of time. A few months, a few years maybe, but one way or another one of us would hear news of the others' disappearance or dismemberment or death, and whoever was left standing would crack a beer at the Roadhouse and drink it alone. And then we'd move on. We'd have to.

And yet somehow, for the first time since Jackie, the vortex of anger and grief that had been eating up my soul from the inside out had quieted. Warmed.

The tears came hot and unexpected and unrelenting, the sobs in heaving, racking waves out of my chest. I doubled over, clutching my middle, over the hole in my life that had threatened to suck everything that made the world worth it into darkness. I cried into my hands, not even sure why or for whom. Something had come out of me tonight, and it would not be resisted anymore.

A warm arm rested tentatively around my shoulders. I leaned into it, not even caring that I was touching someone I barely knew, that they were seeing me cry. A chin rested on the top of my head. I felt soft hair fall onto mine, smelled cotton and paper and blood, and I knew it was Sam. He didn't say a word, didn't ask what was wrong. Just let me fall to pieces into his shirt.

I am fully confident in the strength of my soul. But sometimes you just need to put down whatever burdens you carry, lean into the warm promise of a friend, and have a damn good crying jag. Somewhere along the line, it seemed I had forgotten than even people like me–cold and bitter and more than a little broken–needed someone to lean on, now and again.

The couch dipped next to me, and I smelled leather and gunpowder. Another muscled shoulder leaned against mine. A tiny part of me said, _Great, now they're both seeing me totally lose it_ but the rest of my consciousness was consumed with whatever the hell this was, this firestorm of grief, gratefulness, and somehow amidst it all, forgiveness. The future was showing its face to me again, alive and unknown and the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

"You're gonna be okay, Laurena," murmured Dean, his voice rough, and somehow, I believed him. "This isn't the end of your story."


End file.
